


Victor's Story

by ladyfeather



Category: FAKE (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Sanami Matoh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1947939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfeather/pseuds/ladyfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only two of Sanami Matoh's characters have backstories. It's time to fill in some of the blanks. I don't claim to own any of her characters, I just like to flesh them out a bit. More notes at the end of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victor's Story

Only two of Sanami Matoh's characters have backstories. It's time to fill in some of the blanks. I don't claim to own any of her characters, I just like to flesh them out a bit. More notes at the end of the story. Beta'd by my best-est friend, Brit_Columbia.

**Victor's Story**

Norma scanned the club's patrons through a thick haze of cigarette smoke. They were the standard fare; there were her followers of course, about 3 or 4 that actually came to hear her sing. Then there were the regulars: a variety of passers-by, low-lifes, and losers mixed in with the unhappy husbands and lonely souls looking for a moment's peace. She'd probably be fighting off one or two tonight, like usual. Just because she was a natural blonde didn't mean she was easy. Quite the contrary. She'd had a few lovers, but no one ever struck her as Mr. Right. In the end, all they saw was a beautiful blonde who was good in bed. She could sympathize with Marilyn Monroe; no man saw blondes as people, especially the good looking blondes.

She was due on stage in a few minutes, so quickly finished her ice water and headed backstage. Bessie, the all-round hair stylist, dresser, makeup artist, whatever you needed doing at the moment person, flashed her a welcoming smile. "Come here, honey, let me check you before you go out. You smudged the lipstick a bit, and that curl just won't stay put tonight, will it? But you still look gorgeous. One of these days, honey, you'll find him."

She turned to face the closed curtain. Bessie had the highest hopes for her finding the right man. _Not here, that's for damned sure_.

"And here she is, our own personal nightingale, Melodie Angele!" A round of half-hearted applause broke the quiet, and a few wolf whistles emanated from the back of the room. _The name's gotta go, and so does this club. I can do better than here. I just gotta get the money together to hire a manager._ The glare of the too-bright spotlight interrupted her thoughts and brought her back to the job at hand – singing her heart out.

She sang the blues, and damned well too. Nobody believed at first that a skinny blonde could produce that deep a sound, or have that moving a voice. Maybe it was because it came from her heart when she sang. She knew the blues intimately – they were on a first name basis.

She was on the last song of her set when a ruckus broke out off to her left. One of the local drunks was heading towards the stage. _Damn, here we go again. And I don't see the bouncer around, he's probably outside with some chick again._ She started to move toward the right of the stage, hoping somebody would grab him before she had to head into the wings, but it didn't look good. He may have been drunk, but he was fast, and now had managed to grab her arm roughly.

"Hey baby, how 'bout you gimme a kiss, eh? You're a pretty one." Even at arm's length, the reek of his breath was nauseating, and he held her arm tight enough that she couldn't get away. He started pulling her toward him.

But before he could do much else, a very nicely dressed black man intercepted him. He wasn't what you could call a handsome man, but he was ruggedly good looking; not really tall, maybe 5' 9", and built like a linebacker. She swore she heard bones break after he grabbed the drunk's hand and removed it from her arm. The hoarse cry issuing from the drunk only reinforced the thought.

"The lady's not finished her song. I came to hear her sing, not to watch you try to paw her up. How about you leave her alone? No, how about you just leave?" He half dragged the would-be assailant toward the door, where the bouncer was just coming in. He pushed the drunk toward him, telling him to take out the trash, then returned to his table. Before he sat back down, he bowed slightly and asked her, very politely, if she would mind starting the song over, since it was one of his favorites.

In the year she had been here, no one had ever helped her like that. She smiled, saying it would be her pleasure, it was one of her favorites too. That night she thought that she sang that song better than she had ever done before. Maybe because, this time, she knew she had someone to share it with her.

After she left the stage Bessie was waiting for her with an icepack. She had seen what happened, and from her vantage point backstage she could see the bruising start. She sat her down at the small table and applied the ice, hoping at least to keep the swelling down for the next set. The two women were busy talking together when her protector from the audience came up beside them.

"I beg you pardon for interrupting, but I just wanted to make sure that you were all right. I see you have some nasty bruising. Will you need medical attention? I can take you to the hospital if you like."

She looked up at the kind face, actual concern for her well-being was reflected there. "No, I'll be fine, I've had worse. I'll just wear longer sleeves for the next week. And thank you for assisting me. I knew there'd be trouble when I didn't see the bouncer around. My name's Norma, by the way." She offered her hand to shake his, but he surprised her by taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, but not actually kissing it.

Now cradling her hand in both of his he replied, "Always ready to assist a lady in distress. Ah, but where are my manners? My name is Richard, I run a small variety store near here. I've heard tales of the beautiful singer that performs here, so I had to come and see for myself. They did not exaggerate, either on the beauty of the singer or the quality of her voice."

His warm breath on her hand and the sweetness of his words brought out feelings she thought she lost years ago. A giddiness surged through her, she felt like a teenager again with her first crush. She felt like her face was flushed too. She didn't know what to say.

But Bessie did. She got up and offered him her chair, saying she would find another. A quick glimpse back after she left the table put hope in her heart. Maybe this one?

Richard continued to come to the club every weekend, and occasionally a few times during the week when she sang. Things moved slowly, but steadily, until almost a year to the day after their unusual meeting, she became Mrs. Victor Richard Goldman. Together they ran what was now their store; she handled the finances, did the ordering, cleaned the store, and kept the stock up-to-date. He handled all the repairs, picked up the supplies when necessary, and helped with the heavy stockwork that needed to be done in the store. It only took a few months after they were married for her to let him know she was pregnant. It was difficult to tell who was happier.

He had always hated the name Victor – he never used it - so when she decided that the baby would be a junior he was appalled. "How can you do that to him? Look at him – so cute and sweet – he's not a Victor."

"He's our itty bitty bikky boy, aren't you sweetie? Look at those golden locks. Bikky … yes, Bikky ..." She turned to look at her husband, "Will that do as a nickname? I really do think a man should have a junior to carry on his name."

He couldn't argue with her; she had her heart set on naming their first child after him. He smiled and kissed both his wife and his son. "Well, Bikky's gonna have it rough, you know. Being mixed like this is sure to put lots of people against him."

"But we'll keep him safe and make him strong. We've both had to deal with the backlash of some very prejudiced people just by running our store. But we've also made quite a few good friends along the way; and they definitely outweigh the bad. We can show him that not all people are so narrow-minded."

#=#=#=#=#

His dearest Norma was dead. Her blood still stained the wooden floor of the store. They couldn't save her. And the punks that shot her were never caught. All this for $50 bucks. His life now resided in the bottom of a bottle. He had no concern for the store anymore, the business went bankrupt. The building was foreclosed and sold out from under him.

All he had was lots of memories and Bikky. Neither he nor Norma had any family to speak of, so he couldn't leave the boy with anyone. Not that he would; he had to keep his son with him – he was all he had left of Norma. With no money coming in, he straightened up enough to start dealing for the local pusher. It was easy money, making just enough to keep the two of them in a dumpy 2 room apartment with barely adequate food on the table and equally poor quality clothes on their backs. But he still lived in the bottle, at times falling very deep into it.

By the time Bikky was school age, Dick Goldman was a shadow of his former self. You would never have guessed that he had once been a profitable businessman, owned his own store and had been a credit to his neighborhood. He fell deeper into the clutches of the drug lords, finally becoming only a pawn in their drug game. Totally expendable.

Bikky had promised his dad that he would go to school, but it was getting harder by the day. He enjoyed school, but not the other kids. At first it was fine, he was a novelty for the kids. But as he advanced in the grades, he became a target. Derogatory names were now used to address him, starting with 'Oreo', and moving quickly in less civilized terms, often having something to do with monkeys. He quickly learned to fight his own battles, with fists if necessary, to be left alone at school. It wasn't long before he had the reputation as a skilled fighter, and one who wouldn't back down from any challenge. After loosening quite a few teeth, things tended to smooth out.

Home was still a problem. His dad was hitting the bottle more often, cursing the drug lords and promising revenge for their having dragged him down so low. Bikky started visiting the orphanage that was about a half-mile away, mixing with kids just as lost as he was. At least they were happy to see him when he visited – he sure didn't get that feeling at home very often. Most of the time his dad wasn't even conscious, much less sober.

Hanging with the kids from the orphanage gave him new skills – they taught him how to play poker and other card games, a few dice games – all the nice gambling skills that would get him a few bucks for food and clothes. His dad never had the money for clothes, so it was the only way he could be dressed fashionably, other than outright stealing them.

One day when he came home from school he found his dad sitting on the sofa, looking like he had been on the losing end of 10 rounds with George Foreman. He was more sober than Bikky had ever seen him. His father called him over, trying to make his words understandable despite his injuries.

Calling his son over, he held up a small plastic bag filled with powder "Bikky, I'm putting this in our hiding spot, OK? If anything happens to me, get it to the cops and give them Feldman's name. They'll know what to do. You understand Bikky? This is important. I've got to go out now, but I'll see you in the morning, OK kid?"

Bikky nodded, more scared than he had ever been in his short life. He didn't like what had been done to his dad, nor what his dad had said. _If something happens to me..._ What could happen? They'd made it this far, nothing would happen. Nothing was going to happen, they'd keep on going, forever, right? They were all each other had.

Richard Goldman gave his son a long hug as a sad smile crept across his face, "You remind me so much of your mother ... I miss her so much ..."

That night Bikky dreamed of angels. He'd been dreaming a lot about angels since hanging with the kids at the orphanage. But this time there was a particular blonde angel, one that reminded him of his mother, what little of her he could remember. And the angel was crying.

When Bikky awoke the next morning his dad hadn't returned. There were no signs he had been there during the night either. His dad was always there in the morning, usually passed out on the couch. Bikky felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach, and it wasn't a good feeling. He took the packet from the hiding spot and transferred it to the hidden pocket he had made in his left skate. He left a note for his dad and decided to check back after school.

But when Bikky returned from school he found the door forced open and what few possessions he and his dad owned were tossed about the place. The furniture was overturned and slashed, the stuffing was thrown everywhere. He didn't even enter the apartment, he just ran. He had to find a place to stay for a night or two, until he could figure out what was going on. Maybe Carol's place...

Continued in FAKE, Volume 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with the idea that Bikky was about 4 when his mother was murdered. According to those who know, Sanami Matoh named Bikky 'Victor Richard Goldman Jr.' Thus the story name. There had to be a strong reason for Dick Goldman to keep the child – in my mind it was probably a deep love for his wife. That's where this story originated; hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Only Dick Goldman, Bikky, and Carol are Sanami Matoh's property. The rest are from my imagination.
> 
> I may have veered slightly off the canon path (the timing of the search for the drug packet), but I think it's close enough to pass inspection.


End file.
